My son, my executioner,
I take you in my arms,
Quiet and small and just astir
And whom my body warms.
Sweet death, small son, our instru

Why should I join with those in P
In whom I’ve no delight,
Who curse and swear, but never pra
Who call ill Names, and fight.
I hate to hear a wanton Song,

Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?
Six days of the week it soils

I thought it would last my time—
The sense that, beyond the town,
There would always be fields and f
Where the village louts could clim
Such trees as were not cut down;

Understand, I am always trying to
what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape
and so, last week,

you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
they
are not.
those odd ones, not

Let me tell you a little story
About Miss Edith Gee;
She lived in Clevedon Terrace
At number 83.
She’d a slight squint in her left

We wear the mask that grins and li
It shades our cheeks and hides our
This debt we pay to human guile
With torn and bleeding hearts…
We smile and mouth the myriad subt

He stunk of old stale cigarettes a

At noon in the desert a panting li
waited for history, its elbows ten
watching the curve of a particular
as if something might happen.
It was looking at something farthe

Either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you
when I was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb, unsophisticated.

The apes yawn and adore their flea
The parrots shriek as if they were
Like cheap tarts to attract the st
Fatigued with indolence, tiger and
Lie still as the sun. The boa-con